Promise
by euphoricsymphonies
Summary: Alicia promised her grandfather she would survive. Pre-series.


Promise

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><p>AN: I have no doubts that Wash has always been a BAMF. Her childhood would be interesting to explore so...I did.

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><p>Alicia cringes as her foot lands on the fourteenth step of the building's staircase, causing a resounding creak to echo in the quiet and dark foyer, her fatigue making her neglectful of her usual routine. She hates having to go out of her way to avoid the degenerate in 4B.<p>

She knows what he listens for, what signals he's come to expect as someone steps into the decrepit building. The hinges of the entrance doors are stiff and often require a forceful shove to coax apart. Trash litters the ground. The elevator has long since stopped functioning, its doors not quite open or closed, and serves as nothing more than a garbage receptacle. She has to be careful not to step on anything that was carelessly thrown in its general vicinity as she approaches the stairs. This can be tricky as the dim, flickering, fluorescent lights do little to light the way and the stench invades her senses, making her lose focus.

Once she makes it past those hurdles, Alicia counts each step as she ascends the rickety staircase to the second floor, taking care to avoid the third, ninth, and fourteenth step. But tonight she hadn't paid enough attention and it might cost her.

He knows her work schedule. Knows that on Friday's she doesn't get home until after 3:00 in the morning. She risks a quick glance at her pocket watch, an antique Hamilton, an heirloom left to her by her grandfather and one of the few things she calls her own. It reads 3:17 am.

She has no doubts that he's aware of her presence and ready to emerge from his hole any minute. She squares her shoulders and steals herself for the impending interaction but still makes an effort to avoid it. She manages to make it past his door, a couple feet separating her from her own. She hurriedly reaches into her tattered bag for her keys, feels her fingers surround metal and pulls them out. The key slides into the keyhole, ready to turn the bolt, but he's already in the hall, a smirk on his face.

"Alicia," he lets out softly, stressing the vowels in her name in a singsong manner. His grey-eyed stare is direct as she turns to face him. His body imposing in the small hallway. The combination sets her body on edge. She's seen the way his eyes follow her when they cross paths, the lecherous smile he gives her as he sizes her up.

She's too tired to play this game. Her neighbor, Jonathan, starts off by asking her inane questions before continuing into inappropriate ones. Sometimes she wishes that he'd just try something already so she can get this over with. She packs a mean punch and always carries a weapon. Alicia surreptitiously lets her hand slide into her right pants pocket and grasps her butterfly knife. He doesn't notice the movement; too busy staring at her chest.

"You look tired. Long night?"

"Obviously," Alicia replies, enunciating the 'v' particularly hard. Her left hand reaches for the doorknob, signaling the end of this pointless conversation.

He doesn't get the message and instead chuckles a bit. "Oh, come one sweetie. There's no need be like that." He pushes greasy blond hair behind his ear before continuing. "Boyfriend of yours not fuck you right?"

She glares at him. Doesn't reply. She's had enough and quickly slips inside her studio apartment, slamming and locking her door. She hears laughter and the click of a deadbolt across the hall.

_Fucking asshole_.

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><p>She lays in bed, a twin mattress thrown against the far wall, with an old blue comforter acting as her only shield against the chilly weather. It's late in the afternoon. Alicia wipes the sleep from her eyes, brushes her dark hair from her face and contemplates her day.<p>

She doesn't have work until ten. Tending bar certainly had its perks - good tips, free drinks, and an easy schedule. Four hours earns her more than two days at her other job. Aside from that commitment, her schedule looks good.

She decides to lounge on the mattress a little while longer before getting up to make herself breakfast. Walking across what used to be beautiful hardwood floors, chestnut if she hazards a guess, she wraps a thin cloak around her shoulders, and proceeds to open her cupboards in search of nourishment.

"Not a lot of options here, Alicia," she says to the empty room, her voice a little above a whisper.

She finds a lone box of macaroni and cheese, some herbal tea, and a couple of granola bars. Not feeling particularly hungry, she grabs a bar and a tea bag. She tidies up around the kitchen while waiting for the water to boil.

Dozens of newspapers lay strewn over the counter, some marked with a red marker, others not. Searching the classifieds religiously proved fruitless. Renting a new place has been on the top of her things to do list for the past couple of weeks. She wanted to live someplace that didn't require stealth training for her to reach her door without the threat of harassment. But she'd been lucky enough to find this dump in the first place. Cheap and close to work. And it's not _that_ bad. Definitely better than living on the streets where escaping the contaminated air and harsh elements was impossible.

Looking at the four walls that surround her, Alicia takes in the peeling wall paper and chipping paint, a unappealing toffee brown. The fridge is on its last leg and the stove has only one working burner. The bathroom is so incredibly cramped, it's hard even for her to maneuver around it. The rats and roaches were the worst.

Ok. So it's _really_ bad. This place should've been condemned a long time ago but beggars can't be choosers, can they?

She settles into a chair after preparing her tea. Frustration fueling her lethal glare to a random spot on the wall. In an attempt to break herself out of her foul mood, she walks across the room to look for her box. It rests in the corner of the room, opposite her bed, covered with books in an effort to hide it from prying eyes. It's nothing more than a plain, old shoebox. The one her grandfather had kept his favorite dress shoes in. The same ones she buried him in.

She'd found a way to give him a decent burial. She sold the few furniture pieces they owned, pawned some items that were considered slightly valuable (she never got them back), and bartered with a mortician who took pity on her. She wouldn't bestow him the indignity of being buried in a pauper's grave with only a number identifying him to the world.

The first thing she sees when she opens it is a picture of her beloved grandfather, Gunnery Sergeant Benjamin James Washington, in dress blues. Pride shining in his green eyes. A Marine through and through. He'd retired before the integration of the military branches. The edges were faded from too much handling but clearly loved.

He had raised her after the death of her parents. They were miserably poor. And he became hopelessly sick. Eventually, the polluted air made it so he became a prisoner in their home, a tiny apartment in the government housing section of the city. But fond memories of evenings spent at a rickety yellow table, listening to him tell the story of how her parents met or one about his war days for the hundredth time over humble servings of whatever he managed to scramble together kept her moving forward.

Next was a picture of both her parents holding hands, smiling at each other, her father holding a five year old Alicia. She doesn't remember much about them but the picture tells her that she has her mother's eyes and her father's hair. Equally worn, the picture is set aside tenderly.

A pearl necklace peaks out from under a monogrammed ivory handkerchief. Both belonged to her mother. An elegant woman from what her grandfather's stories described. A few more knickknacks are picked up and carefully handled, eliciting fond memories that sooth her frazzled nerves.

Alicia carefully puts everything back into her box and conceals it once again. Deciding that more sleep would do her good, she covers her body with her comforter and surrenders herself to a dreamless sleep.

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><p>She fills the drink order for a group of six friends celebrating a birthday, her efficiency earning her a ten dollar tip. She's only been working for two hours and already has a little over a hundred dollars for her efforts.<p>

The club is busy tonight. A mass of bodies gyrating in every possible direction, flashing lights blinding, the pulsating music deafening. The usual. A couple of guys tried and failed to get her number. Not that she had one to give but she wasn't interested in one night stands. She just wanted to work her shift and spend some time with her friends afterwards. They'd planned on meeting at some late night diner for an early breakfast.

"Hey, can I get three shots of Jack?"

The voice breaks her out of her reverie. It belongs to a twenty something frat boy, dressed in an unfortunate outfit (baggy pants, a loud muscle shirt, and a backwards baseball hat). What did they call it? Peacocking? Meant to attract a girl's attention. She held back a snort.

_That's not gonna work, buddy._

The majority of the night is spent in much the same way. Filling drink orders and turning down propositions. After a fight broke out, one of the bouncers stayed around the bar to intimidate others from doing the same. Tony was tall, with bulging muscles and a mean looking face but a nice guy nonetheless. When Alicia was the new girl, he went out of his way to make her feel welcome, had introduced her to the other bouncers, and taught her a couple of moves so when some idiot got handsy, she could kick some ass.

_You remind me of my sister_ he told her after she asked him why he was going out of his way to help her out.

Once her shift is over and another bartender comes to take her place, she collects her tips, picks up her paycheck, and heads out the back door, waving to her boss as she exits out the back. The night is particularly dark, made more so by the lack of streetlights. The roads are deserted. The sound of her feet hitting the pavement the only noise she hears. The walk to the diner takes her about fifteen minutes and once she spots her friends sitting at a booth through the window, she quickens her pace. The ringing bell above the door as it opens draws their attention.

Three greetings are spoken in unison.

"Hi Alicia," is spoken by Natalie, a sweet girl with auburn hair and blue eyes that had once shared her lunch with her at school when she'd forgotten her own.

"Took you long enough. I'm starving here!" comes out in a cry of exasperation, brown eyes twinkling with mischief. If it's one thing John lacks, it's patience.

"Hi," comes from Sam, a tall and lanky brunette with dazzling green eyes. A recent addition to the group, he was still a little shy around her.

She smiles at them as she sits next to Johnny and greets them each in return. After placing their order, they fall into random conversation. Natalie talks about how much she dislikes her roommate. Alicia recalls meeting her once, a rude, self-centered girl that was always late with the rent. Sam stays quiet for the most part, turns red once John starts teasing him about some mystery girl he likes, and John...is just John. Loud, funny (dirty jokes notwithstanding), obnoxious at times, and a tough guy. Always getting into fights. But a sweetheart deep down.

They eat their food once it arrives, chatter and the clink of silverware interchanging, breaking up their exchange. Once they're done, the topic turns to her search for a new place to live.

"You can have mine," comes from Johnny, his voice serious.

"That's generous. Where are you gonna stay?" She asks, thinking he's kidding around.

"Barracks, probably." Absolute quiet follows his statement.

They had talked about it in passing before. Numerous times. His desire for something he couldn't explain. His wants to make his father proud. Follow family tradition. But the idea of going to war caused him pause. To reconsider.

She understands where he's coming from. Understands his reasoning. So, instead of asking him why (because she already knows why) or attempting to convince him otherwise (he would never do anything blindly, without careful consideration, despite what his carefree personality would have you think), she places her hand on his shoulder.

"I'm going to miss you, John."

It's all that needs to be said.

* * *

><p>The week passes in a blur. After throwing a going away party for John and seeing him off, Alicia packs her belongings and gets ready to move into her new residence. It doesn't take her long. All her things fit into one large duffel bag, a medium sized carry-on, and a large box. Anything else she may need was left to her by John.<p>

She places her key on the kitchen counter as she was instructed by her landlord and waits for her friends to show up and help her move. To pass the time, she takes out the shoebox, sits on her mattress, and rummages through it. The picture of her grandfather the first thing she sees. It makes her think about John and how he's doing. No doubt getting in trouble with his smart mouth. A small chuckle leaves her. She takes out her pocket watch to look at the time, noticing that her friends should arrive soon.

She hears the door open.

"Hey guys. You're right on ti-"

Her sentence cuts off once she sees who exactly is standing inside her apartment. The creep from across the hall.

_Fuck_.

"So, you're moving?" He closes the door behind him. He begins walking towards her, slow steps bringing him closer.

Alicia sets the box aside and stands up. Her nervousness clearly evident.

"Get out."

"I just wanted to say goodbye."

She begins walking backwards, away from him, her eyes never leaving his form. He follows her, blocking her path to the door. She could make a run for it. If he gets any closer, he'll back her into a corner and that seriously limits her options. She sees an opening and goes for it.

Unfortunately, he saw it too and lunges at her, manages to pin her against the wall, his hands bands of steel around her wrists, his body too heavy to push off. His scent evades her nostrils. A sickly combination of alcohol and body odor.

"Get off me!" she yells, calling upon all her strength to push him away and failing miserably. His eyes are wild with emotions she doesn't care to explore.

She manages to twist herself out from under him but he simply wraps an arm around her waist before she gets an inch away and hauls her off her feet, carrying her towards the mattress kicking and screaming. He throws her on it and falls onto her, straddling her waist, knocking the wind out of her lungs, before he punches three times in an effort to shut her up.

Through the haze and ringing in her ears she feels him rip her shirt, his hands messaging her breasts through her bra. His hair falls into her eyes as he moves to kiss her, his breath turning her stomach. She starts swinging blindly, scratching, anything that might help. Her mind is in full panic mode, no coherent thoughts present. He brings his forearm to her throat and presses down. Hard. The lack of air makes her head swim. He calls her a bitch as he undoes her the button of her jeans and positions himself between her legs. She's on the brink of blacking out. Consciousness slipping away.

_Promise me you'll survive._

It comes to her. His voice. Her promise. Made long ago in a hospital room.

She reaches into her pants pocket, finds her knife and pulls it out. As she hears him reach for his belt, she stabs him.

Alicia Washington is a woman of her word.

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><p>AN: Thoughts?


End file.
